A Toast to Victory
by GHTlovesTHG
Summary: In which vows are forged, privacy is invaded, peace is found, and Buttercup remains utterly unimpressed. Written for Stories to Save Lives. Rated M for sexual situations. Canon-Compliant toasting fic.


This story was written for S2SL, which can be found on tumblr. Check it out, it's a great cause!

Thank you to my long-suffering beta, The RPGenius.

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_**Summary:** In which vows are forged, privacy is invaded, peace is found, and Buttercup remains utterly unimpressed._

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**A Toast to Victory**

_**Victor, 74**__**th**_ _**Games, Male**_

I have made countless loaves of bread. This is natural, for the son of a baker. Making bread, for a time, was also key to my tenuous hold on sanity. It was a coping mechanism. I made bread even when there were no mouths left to eat it. But never have I put so much care and consideration into a single loaf before.

Traditionally, the occasion calls for white bread. Pure, soft, and pale, to make up for the wilted state of faded toasting dresses that have been passed down for generations. Dresses that, even used so little - once in a girl's life- cannot help but become dingy with coal dust. But the coal dust has long since settled and the mines lay silent. Ashes choke the air in Twelve now.

Nothing about our lives up to this moment has been traditional. So in deference of the occasion, I tip the dish of nuts into the dough with solemnity, folding them into the springy, floured mass. Next is the dried fruit. I add it gradually, ceremoniously, making sure it's evenly distributed and not crushed by the heel of my hands as I knead.

I know how long dough needs to sit so it can rise. I know the time it takes a loaf to bake to full, golden perfection. But even knowing the duration of these intervals inherently, I check the clock three times, impatient to be done. Never have I anticipated the fruits of my labor so much.

Snatches of memory flash as I wait. My recollections will probably always be choppy, but sometimes there's a certain beauty to the disordered revelation of flashes of my past.

This morning, I see how eagerly I burned myself for the girl on fire. Even before she had been named as such, she embodied that idea to me, ever since she stood singing in that ray of light, dressed in fiery red and ignited by the sun.

I remember the brother who showed me the perfect kneading technique- a rolling curve of the wrist, fluid, but firm. I remember the brother that made the loaves I burned long ago, looking the other way as I charred the results of his hard work. I remember the father whose oven baked and burned them, the man whose inner warmth inspired me to reach out to others and gave me the courage to risk throwing those loaves. Finally, I remember my mother, and the aching pulse pounding through my temple and cheek that was so worth it.

As I take it carefully from the oven, I breathe deeply. I smell the highest quality grain a baker can offer, but also the trappings of the forest, with the nuts and fruit. Our bread will be earthy, bounteous. This bread will be us. This bread will be life.

* * *

_**Victor, 74**__**th**_ _**Games, Female**_

Death. I stare at it contemplatively. We are very familiar, death and I. We have all the same friends. But no matter how many times we bump into each other, no matter how close we get, it looks different each time I see it.

Today, it is a wild goose. And I invited death along myself. Courted it, stalking the bird, nocking my arrow, and letting it lodge deep in the hapless fowl's breast.

Geese aren't particularly clever. Not like mockingjays or crows. But that doesn't make my kill mean any less. In my mind, in my heart, I am grateful to this bird. It will nourish me and those I love.

And strangely, it is for love of another that I willingly walk alongside death today. I am bringing him game, bringing him a meal to warm him from the inside out, like he does me. My boy with the bread.

He brings hope like the spring brings rain, warm and cleansing. It's hope that allows me to turn from all the faces death has inhabited in my life. Faces that scream at me from behind my eyelids.

I gather the goose into my game bag, planning the necessary tasks for the remainder of the morning - plucking, preparing, and roasting the bird, to be eaten in celebration after the events of the afternoon. A reckless, excited thrill shoots through me at the thought of what lies ahead.

* * *

_**Victor, 50**__**th**_ _**Games**_

It takes a while before I realize my eyes are actually open. I don't know how long. The light is dim, so it could be either dawn or dusk - I don't particularly care to find out. I wonder, with bored disinterest, where I ended up this time. All that matters is the disappointing realization that I'm not only conscious, but relatively sober. That, and the relief that this isn't another beginning to the horrors that regularly play out behind my eyes.

I register multiple aches in my abused joints and muscles. The fact that the available light is shining almost directly above me, but I can't hear any noises associated with the outdoors, leads me to believe I'm probably on the floor in my Victor's residence.

As I propel my body into motion, the strained muscles shake with protest. The wood grain beneath the heels of my palms confirms my suspicion: I'm coming to in the foyer. As I position myself upright, the musical sound of glass tinkling attests to my recent activity: a drunken bender that blessedly lasted several days.

At this point, my next step would usually be to haul myself up, locate the remaining bottles from my Capitol liquor shipment, and situate myself on the tired couch in the next room to continue where I'd left off, but my stomach reminds me that I haven't fed it anything but alcohol in quite sometime.

In fact, I don't remember the last thing I ate. Probably something the boy made. After staggering weakly to my feet, I look hopefully into the kitchen as I pass. But there are no loaves, buns or pastries that have been left for me.

God damn it.

* * *

_**Victor, 74**__**th**_ _**Games, Male**_

I slice the bread slowly, taking care to apportion it into slices of uniform width. It's been difficult to wait until late afternoon to do so, even knowing the bread would get stale if I cut it after baking it this morning. I was so impatient and restless that I made another loaf to give myself something to do. It sits, warm and fresh, next to the cooling goose. I'm sure Haymitch will want it.

If Katniss had any special china, I might use it. Then again, I'm never entirely sure which memories are attached to what objects, and I wouldn't want to upset her. Today is supposed to be about the future, about happiness. There are few memories that engender feelings of joy for her.

So instead, I set out the bread on a nondescript plate, just like all the others in her cupboard. It's not the china that makes today special. It's not the width of the bread slices that deems the occasion momentous.

It's that I can be in a room with her and once again never want to be anywhere else. It's that she can settle comfortably in my presence, look away and not need to worry that we're alone. It's that most days, she puts one foot down on the floor beside the bed, then the other, and rises out of it. It's that when I look in the mirror, I see a survivor who's finding his place staring back, not a madman lost in the world.

It's that despite and because of everything we've both endured, we only want to face the rest with each other.

I've hoped for this day since the age of five. But looking at the years between then and now, I know today's circumstances would be completely unrecognizable to that simple boy's imaginings...the people involved, the complexity of the feelings between them, the actions and events that brought them here.

Carrying the plate I've arranged, I pass through the entryway as I walk toward the sitting room. There she waits for me. This is so much more _real_ than everything that younger version of myself could have comprehended.

* * *

_**Victor, 74**__**th**_ _**Games, Female**_

I stare out a window in the sitting room, taking in the stillness of the scene. It's as if the very air is awaiting the approaching proceedings as anxiously as I am. The sky outside is Peeta's muted orange, and I'm glad we waited until the approach of evening for this.

The whole day feels surreal. For so long, I was sure I didn't want this. I knew it emphatically, nothing could have been simpler. But the simplicity of my life rapidly deserted me, until all was subterfuge, all was moves and counter-moves. I could barely keep track of who I was.

So new things became simple. That for me, feeling safe meant being near Peeta. That Peeta's well being was one of my chief concerns. That his presence sparked the strangest and most miraculous feeling within me: hope. Knowing what it's like to have him with me and what it's like to be without him, I'm so sure I _do_ want this.

As I wait, my nails dig into the grain of the window sill. It's not so much nerves as disbelief that this will actually be allowed to come to pass. I still expect booming voices from the sky, hovercrafts materializing overhead, and cleverly disguised bombs floating softly down beside me. Now that I want this so much, surely it won't be allowed to occur? Everything but him has been ripped from me.

I hear him enter the room, and for a moment, I'm frozen with the importance of what lays before us. I can practically feel his every motion behind me, feel every step he takes closer to the hearth. When I hear the subdued clink of china on wood, knowing Peeta must be setting the bread down on the low table, I turn to look at him.

All the air leaves the room, especially what was in my lungs. He looks no different than any other day, save that he's wearing his best clothes. He's just Peeta, my Peeta, and we stare at each other momentarily before he kneels by the hearth. That sort of movement can be difficult for him, but the only emotion radiating from his face is a soft joy, as he expertly coaxes the embers in the fireplace to life. The flames grow under his skilled hands, and he banks them back to a level perfectly suited to our purposes.

Now the room is washed in the muted golds of firelight, and the sky outside glows orange in the windows. It's as if his presence in this room surrounds me. It's all encompassing, like his presence in my life, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I sit down silently beside him, not wanting to disturb the quiet. The stillness is almost sacred, as our eyes acknowledge all that passes unspoken between us. I take a piece of the bread and break it in two, handing him half, before our hands move together toward the fire.

* * *

_**Victor, 50**__**th**_ _**Games**_

What on Earth else has Lover Boy been doing if not baking? There should be a veritable sweet shop laid out on my kitchen table by now.

Cursing profusely, I make my way to the icebox. Sweetheart must have left something in here for me, there aren't so many people rebuilding that there wouldn't be extra meat for her old mentor, not with the frequency of her hunting trips lately.

My mouth starts to water as I imagine some nice, dark, gamy meat. My gnashing stomach voices its anticipation. The visions I conjure are so appetizing, I wonder how I'll have the patience to cook what I find.

I find nothing.

My angry cussing must be louder than I think, because I hear a clatter and see that great orange beast of Sweetheart's scurry out of the kitchen. It's a good thing too, because I'm hungry enough to eat the damned feline.

Looks like it's time to go foraging. There's only one place guaranteed to yield up what I seek: Peeta's pantry. And it's more bountiful than ever now that the kid bakes in his house each morning, but eats and sleeps at Sweetheart's each night.

* * *

_**Victor, 74**__**th**_ _**Games, Male**_

Momentous as the ceremony is, a toasting only takes a few moments. We planned to extend the celebration a bit, in place of wedding festivities, with a private feast between Katniss and I. She bagged such a beautiful wild goose for just that purpose, and I took it out of the oven to cool just before I plated the bread. Though the timing for a hot meal right after our toasting was planned perfectly, our plans are quickly derailed.

Katniss feeds me a bite of the bread first. After I place the portion I toasted back on the plate, one beautiful bite missing, Katniss grabs my wrist and draws my hand back toward her.

One by one, she licks the crumbs from my fingertips, her gray gaze burning into mine. At first, she's teasing, playful as she flicks my fingers with her tongue. But once each digit has been tended to, she starts again with little open-mouthed kisses, back and forth over the pads of my fingers, sucking at them with her mouth. I can see in her eyes that she's issuing a challenge, one I'd normally be only too happy to accept, but she worked so hard to bring home that goose, and we planned this evening so carefully.

"Katniss, the meal," I begin to protest, but with one sharp nip to the tip of my thumb with her teeth, and one penetrating look burning into me, all our plans are thrown out the window. Katniss is a person of few words, but she more than gets her point across.

My gaze focuses on the shapely mouth that was just kneading the tips of my fingers. I want to feel those lips again. I drag the pad of my thumb over her lower lip, my eyes riveted to the way the flesh drags wetly against my digit. The simple effect is so erotic, it feels almost obscene. I'm already breathing heavily when I acquiesce.

"Alright, then."

My fingers weave into the hair behind her ears, my palms cradling her jawline as I draw her lips to mine. Our mouths meet, and our lips give and take, bold campaigns and hasty retreats, but neither of us gains significant ground.

Soon I'm tugging her into my lap, knocking the low table back several inches as I draw her thigh over my lap to clutch at my side. Katniss follows eagerly, undulating on top of my groin and leaning me back until I'm half propped up on the skewed table.

She's voracious, meeting me step for step and then some. The position is far from comfortable, but certainly speaks of our urgency. I reach out to drag a blanket off a nearby armchair, hoping it will provide cushioning as I maneuver us fully onto the floor.

The blanket's barely off the chair before Katniss scrambles off my lap, much to my dismay. But when she wriggles out of the blouse she wore for the ceremony, I comprehend her purpose. Once free of the garment, she falls upon my shirt, practically tearing at the buttons in her impatience for the feel of my skin.

With a sudden sharp tug of my hands at her hips, her slacks are pulled down past her rear. Bit by bit, I'm able to tug them further down her thighs. When she finally opens the placket of my shirt, I clasp her rear and pull her against me, freeing her legs to shimmy her pants the rest of the way off.

Her underwear-clad form is writhing against me, hot and barely contained as though she's about to combust, a concentrated conflagration in my arms.

Suddenly, Katniss starts raining kisses down over my face, in complement to her fingers pulling at the fastenings of my trousers. Once undone, she snakes her hands into the opening and beneath my underwear, moaning loudly against my skin as her greedy hands clasp and stroke me hungrily.

But I want to do this right. This is far from the first time we've done this, but our toasting only happens once. I want to do it completely, skin on skin and a shared climax, if we can. So despite her petulant whines of impatience, I gently push her back off me so I can remove the rest of my clothes unimpeded.

Once we're both naked, I kneel over her, and let our lower bodies meet and move together. Katniss sighs with pleasure, rubbing against me, working herself up before I've even entered her. Right as I'm poised above her, I touch my forehead to hers.

"Keep your eyes on mine," I say. Her eyes, which swept the room each time she thrashed her head back and forth or bowed her back beneath me, instantly meet mine and hold my gaze.

And so, encouraged by her response, I slowly thrust forward. And like every time we do this, I feel her every nuance. But I've barely begun before her eyes scrunch shut at the sensation, lips parted with erratic breathing.

I freeze my progress as I insist, "No, _look_ at me." The instant I stop, Katniss darts a glare my way, infuriated at the delay.

But this time, as I pin her with my stare and resume pushing into her, she keeps her eyes open and on me. The control required nearly overwhelms her, and by the time I'm fully inside, she's panting, subsumed by trembles. But still her eyes meet mine, so I withdraw partially and start a fluid, rapturous rhythm.

* * *

_**Victor, 74**__**th**_ _**Games, Female**_

I'm in a state of utter bliss as I move with Peeta, my eyes still riveted to his blue irises above me.

He whispers, "You're so wet," reverently, before sweeping his fingers from my folds, where they had eased the way for his entry, to my breast. I can see the tips of his fingers gleaming in the firelight, affirming his words.

His head dips as he nudges the fleshy mound with his thumb, guiding my nipple between his lips. His eyes never leave mine through his lashes and the fringe of damp hair that hangs from his forehead.

They glitter knowingly with satisfaction as my voice breaks on a whimper. Peeta tongues the bud again and again as he moves between my legs. I grip his shoulders, pressing tightly against his body in an effort to still the quivering of my limbs.

His lips and tongue release me, and I try to catch my breath. Sensation is running rampant through me, and Peeta is unrelenting. His fingers make a glancing pass between my thighs, brushing that crucial juncture lightly, and it makes me call out.

Peeta's mouth finds mine and he tastes each cry on my lips, drinking my moans and sweeping the pleasured sounds from my mouth and into his own. I can hardly keep my eyes open as surrender approaches. Peeta knows this and eagerly thumbs my clit.

"I love you," he rasps, his exertion causing a slight growl at the end of his declaration. I try to hold on long enough to reply, to echo his sentiment, but I can barely draw breath. I brace the palm of my hand against his cheek, centering his focus on my words as I seek to reciprocate his statement.

But the touch of my fingers on his face, the pad of my thumb grazing the edge of his opened mouth, is enough to make him jerk against me, and it puts me over the edge. I manage a single word, "I," before a shout of delight wrests its way out of my throat and my hands scrabble frantically at his shoulders, as if trying to hold onto the wash of sensation crashing down and bring him with me.

But he doesn't follow, not yet. I writhe for him- for what he does to me, and for his own pleasure in viewing it. My body hums and vibrates under his influence, all my muscles clenching as I surge further into his embrace. He moves steadily inside me while I pulse and flutter, scattered. I burn solely for him.

As the remnants of my orgasm flicker through me, Peeta quotes the first time we came together like this. "You love me. Real or Not Real?" he pants.

I roll my eyes and chuckle. I'm so happy, though, that it comes out sounding suspiciously like a giggle. The sound of it is unfamiliar, even knowing it's my own voice.

He's rubbing it in that I couldn't manage three little words before he sent me over. "Real," I sigh in breathy exasperation, as if it's a chore to say.

He smiles hugely, delighted at the words, my teasing delivery, and his obvious mastery over my body. I fail to suppress an answering smile as my breathing slowly calms.

I raise my face to press a soft kiss to his heated temple, and my fingers sink in the waves of his hair. Peeta's whole body trembles with emotion and unfulfilled desire. His skin is hot and flushed, and his heavy breaths are still bathing my skin. I tuck some blond curls behind his ear and whisper encouragement for him to continue.

He nuzzles against the contours of my collarbone and shoulders. Peeta's lips drag against the upper swells of my breasts, and then he moves smoothly upwards, lightly nibbling at the skin of my neck. The sheen of sweat covering my body is still present, but Peeta seems not to care as he lips and tongues the upper expanse of my skin.

Before I know what's happening, he's pulled out of me and is coaxing me up onto my knees. I'm not certain about my ability to stay upright at this point, and I sway back into him on shaking limbs. He grasps the top of my hips and maneuvers me into position, sinking smoothly back into me with an appreciative sigh of bliss. I grunt at the intrusion, and he sets a strenuous pace. I don't mind. Quite the opposite.

I moan my disbelief that the sensations are building so quickly again, but it's all too much, and I sink to the floor as my arms and knees give out. Undeterred, Peeta follows me down and holds himself just above me, pulling my pelvis back to meet his thrusts.

I'm languid and quiescent as he moves within me, letting the feelings wash through my body, returning my arousal to a fever's pitch.

* * *

_**Victor, 50**__**th**_ _**Games**_

I stumble down the porch steps and out onto my pockmarked lawn. It's always been pretty uneven, but the strewn bottles and broken glass don't help. The scent of warm, fresh bread permeates the air, causing my mouth to water even as I hack a cough into the crisp fall air.

It seems the boy's making himself useful after all. A little later than usual, but I don't care as long as a piping hot loaf of bread winds up in my hands within the next few minutes.

It's good he's baking. Means he's not having an episode. But as I trudge towards the boy's house, the smell gets fainter. So the bread is baking in Sweetheart's kitchen. Huh.

Lover boy doesn't live with Katniss, though he might as well, seeing as it's no secret he sleeps there every night. Then every morning, the poor kid dutifully trudges back to his own place to bake and paint before they reunite in the early evening. I'm not going to make much of it though. Doesn't matter whose kitchen the food came out of, it's destined for my stomach.

As I retrace my steps on the way to Sweetheart's place, I start to pick up another tantalizing aroma. Roast fowl. Jackpot.

My joints are stiffer than Trinket's wigs after a few rounds of hairspray, so I take it slow on the stairs. The door's open as usual, and I walk into a foyer identical to mine and the boy's- only mine's dirtier.

Looking to the left, I peer into the kitchen. And that's when I see it. Beautiful. Perfect. Crispy golden crust tinged brown at the edges. The boy even wrapped it in a towel to keep in warm for me until he delivered it. I can see another loaf next to it, studded with fruit and nuts and partially sliced, with several pieces missing.

And sitting nearby on the counter is the most succulent game bird, tucked snugly into a roasting pan with vegetables to keep it cozy. It's just waiting to be carved. Which brings me to the obvious question. Why's my bread undelivered and the turkey unattended? Where _are_ my ill-fated charges? It's not like either of them to waste food.

Now, Effie's nosy. Me, I'm shrewdly curious. There's a difference. She tends to fret and worry, whereas my mind automatically skips to the worst possible scenario, and I hopefully work my way backfrom there. Suddenly, finding the two kids seems pretty damn important, especially considering their track record.

The one thing that Effie's got on me is that the she's got manners like you've never seen manners. I don't. It usually doesn't matter in the slightest. But if she heard a faint noise coming from the sitting room, Trinket would have at least knocked on the door frame first. Not me. I go right in.

The light's much dimmer on this side of the house, away from the setting sun. I hear the fire crackling, and sense the presence of others, but there are no other sounds. Something must be wrong. Has the boy lost control and caught her unawares? Furrowing my eyebrows, I cautiously ease further into the room.

With a quiet tread born of my own Games, I draw closer to the center of the space. Here the glow from the hearth illuminates the room, casting lazy shadows everywhere. Still no one is visible.

Finally, I hear something. A soft, contented sigh from near the coffee table. I lean forward to see over the couch, and my eyebrows shoot up.

I'm not sure why the possibility never crossed my mind. Especially when, in the end, it's what I had hoped for, for them. I guess I'm not used to many positive scenarios being a possibility.

Two forms lay tangled up in blankets by the fire, their limbs wrapped tightly around each other. They are virtually silent, their motions sinuous as tendrils of flame tremble beside them in the hearth.

Hunched over Katniss, the boy's hands are splayed tightly on her hips, unceasingly drawing her up to him. His lips trail along her back, and I can see her face is a mask of deep emotion, lips parted in silent appreciation.

I know I should go. The boy would be hurt and the girl would skin me alive with her hunting knives if they knew I'd witnessed this and not instantly turned away. But something stays my feet.

For the last twenty-five years, the purpose of my miserably wasted life has been watching tributes. I've watched them starve, bleed out, and die in every unspeakably violent way you could imagine. I've watched them writhing in pain, their limbs jerking in the last throes of agonized life. I've listened to them choking on desiccated tongues as they slowly died of dehydration. I've watched them rock back and forth, shelter-less and huddled in the brutal cold, unable to generate heat or even comfort for themselves. Forty-six deaths I've lived.

But I've never seen any of my tributes enjoy the act of living before. The closest they ever got was a little nervous gluttony on the train ride to the Capitol. So this is wholly new. And for a moment, it's enough to give me pause. As a mentor, I've monitored my tributes' every moves. I catalogued their strengths and weaknesses, discerned their talents and their flaws, and then watched it all fall apart. None have I watched as closely as I've watched Peeta and Katniss. Because she had a chance, because he was an anomaly, because they lived longer, and because there's something compelling about the both of them.

But here, they're almost unrecognizable. They look so young, entwined and innocent in their desire. They're so caught up in each other, naively comfortable to leave themselves vulnerable and open in the middle of the room, with doors unlocked and completely undefended, it's like they were never in the Games.

Despite how close I've let these two get, I've rarely seen them anything but perpetually distressed. There were glimpses of moments onscreen during the Games - sometimes in the cave, sometimes on the beach, where the fear and subterfuge fell away, but this is different. It permeates every bit of them.

The boy's focused and assured in a way he hasn't been for so long. Sweetheart's features are completely relaxed, and her eyes sparkle joyfully as she turns to look back at him. She's completely oblivious to all else.

She reaches her hand back and squeezes his thigh, and the movement must have meaning for them, because he turns her, and they settle in together face to face, wrapped up even tighter than before. Sweetheart's running her hands all over him, his hair, his face, his shoulders and back, as if affirming he's there, and _real_. At one time I'd have expected such a thing from the boy more than her, but after the Quell, I more than understand.

The boy's face dips to meet hers as he tucks his hand between them, and I avert my eyes. They land on the plate of bread on the table by their side. The singed slices, the missing bites. _Well_.

As the importance of the moment settles on my shoulders and fills my chest, I quietly turn and shuffle back out of the room. If they've earned anything, it's the right to seek happiness in relative privacy.

The last thing I notice is the firelight catching the rough edges of scars on their patchwork skin. They look like glowing, seething seams, revealing the light and heat inside them both. The girl on fire and the boy who ignites her, putting the hearth to shame as they smolder, simmering as though there were glowing coals right beneath their skin.

On my way out, I tuck the untouched bread in the kitchen under my arm, and ponder that beautiful roast goose. They'll obviously be busy for a while yet, and the meat won't stay hot and juicy for long. As I yank a drumstick off the bird, I hope they'll somehow blame it on the cat. I'm too hungry just to pass it by. And considering the alternative, I think they'll eagerly pin it on the furball.

* * *

_**Victor, 74**__**th**_ _**Games, Male**_

The change in position, and the way Katniss can't seem to touch me enough, has me practically at my limit. I slipped out of her as she turned in my arms to face me, but as I draw my fingers through her folds and feel how she needs me, I can't wait any longer before sinking roughly back into her. Katniss gives a plaintive whimper.

Sometimes I wonder if the hijacking has affected me on every level. If it has even colored the way I make love to Katniss. I push the thought away, and remind myself it only matters that Katniss likes the way I touch her, the way I love her. And she does, as her fingers grip me tighter to her and she presses against me impatiently, urging me to move more quickly.

When I comply, she quiets, sound only escaping her lips in broken little, "_oh_s."

I feel completely present. She reminds me of who I am. And I feel loved. Looking into her gray eyes, clear and accepting, even after seeing me fall so far, buoys me up. I mean something to her, am of worth to her. She values me. Despite my hijacking, Katniss sees and cherishes me in a way she never seemed to before. I was so used to being unwanted, then expendable, then unexpected and extraneous. After being rescued, I was a liability, a ticking time bomb, and people understandably resented my presence. I lamented it as well.

But with Katniss, I now feel _wanted_. And seeing that in her eyes grounds me. The shadows moving around me are from the fire, flickering and soft. The darkness at the edge of my vision is the glorious sweep of her dark hair spread out along the floor. The only things that shine are her eyes in the dim light – wet and fathomless as we watch each other.

It's not long before she's trembling and tensing in my arms again. I can tell this climax is softer, gentler than her last.

* * *

_**Victor, 74**__**th**_ _**Games, Female**_

My breaths compress and my limbs tremble as fire consumes me utterly. He continues to move in me, prolonging my climax, and my hips arch toward his repeatedly as I ride it out. My hands snake down and over his rear, grabbing the swells of his flesh in my palms as I anchor myself against him.

I want him there with me. My fingers squeeze, and Peeta gives a helpless shout as he joins me, coming as his thrusts become erratic. Our eyes lock and I give a little sob of delight to feel him in me, to be together like this.

Once we've come down, we lay there together. I feel safe, warm and hopeful. This act builds something private and beautiful between us. It blossoms, slow and lovely, the more we're together this way. And it's only ours, precious and unspoken.

Peeta pillows his head on my chest, his mouth perilously close to my nipple. My fingers have returned to his hair, where they card lazily through the whorls that glow like spun gold in the firelight. We drift off, Peeta still within me, as the daylight outside wanes and the embers of the fire pulse and glow beside us.

* * *

_**Victor, 50**__**th**_ _**Games**_

At home, I sit slouched on the sofa, a goose leg in one hand and the bread loaf resting on my midsection. Usually I'd be eating with more gusto, but I'm too busy trying to classify what I'm feeling. I don't recognize it.

I don't feel bitter that I faced the life of a victor and survivor alone, while they'll always have one another to understand. It's different. It's not that I'm repulsed or titillated by what I've seen. It's affected me far more deeply than that. I'm _moved_.

There are many reasons Panem was completely captivated by their act. There's something about them together that demands notice, that says to the world, "Stop, watch. Something is happening here, and it's something of weight, of merit." Their bond begs witness. It must be seen, much to the girl's chagrin, as something precious and rare.

There's no question they're utterly devoted to each other, though for a while Sweetheart didn't seem to realize it was true for her as well. Their preoccupation with each other, even early on, had been plain to see. But circumstances had always been dire, always involved suffering in the end. Maybe now, in this reimagined Panem, such a feeling could exist as something other than a liability. Maybe it could even flourish.

And I helped to protect it. Of course, I can't pretend I didn't have a hand in threatening it too, keeping them out of the loop and failing to get the boy out of the Quell arena. I've tried to redeem myself to them, taking care of one, or the other, or both until they managed to crawl back to each other and start regrowing.

It's more than I would have expected of myself. In all my years of mentoring, not getting attached to my tributes was one of the earliest things I had to learn. Kids from Twelve just didn't survive the Games. Ever. For twenty-five years, my eyes had been peeled, forcibly riveted to the painful suffering and deaths of my charges. I thought nothing could be worse. And then came Katniss and Peeta. They hadn't died, though the boy might as well have, for all his body had endured.

I didn't know what to do with myself after their first Games. I didn't have to feel the bitter self hatred and recrimination for another pair of tributes lost. The boy was missing a leg, but two were never meant to make it out, and there were twenty-two others that hadn't been so lucky. But something almost equally harrowing took the place of self loathing - a tiny bit of hope. Hope that things were changing. But that led to terror, sheer and absolute. Because they still weren't safe. My two miraculous successes were still in danger at every moment. And now I _knew_ them. They snuck up on me. It was terrible.

Since it was Panem, things only grew worse. Snow made a mockery of the tiny, strumming thread of hope that had briefly taken up residence in the hollow cavity of my body. Things weren't changing quickly enough. So we incorporated the star-crossed lovers into our plans. One or both would be Mockingjay.

I thought I'd lost them in so many ways since then, both in the Quell and the following rebellion. I never could have expected they would be able to endure so much. But their resilience was astounding.

So seeing them happy and fulfilled captivates me in a cathartic, healing way. I can finally stop worrying. Maybe even stop waiting for everything to be a lie, for it to all unravel with each new day. It's freeing.

I hear a scratching at the window, and see a hulking orange mass through the glass, butting against the pane, trying to get in. I closed it when I returned, due to the boy's damned insistence on opening every window he came across. Knowing him, all the ones at Sweetheart's house are wide open.

I get to my feet with a sigh, and let the thing in.

"Exiled, you mangy interloper? Or maybe you beat a strategic retreat too."

Buttercup ignores me, and sashays imperiously over to the couch, where I've left my drumstick.

"Well," I accede, "maybe you can stay." After all, I was an intruder earlier as much as Buttercup is now.

I turn to close the window, and see that, indeed, all the windows across the way sit open, undoubtedly due to the boy's preference. "There goes the neighborhood," I mumble, with a slight curve of my lips.

I return to the sofa and reclaim my provisions before the cat gets them. He sits there, satisfied and indolent as he lazily cleans his fur with paws and tongue. Probably spent the day hunting field mice among the ruins.

I feel contented and accomplished too. Isn't something like this what I've been trying to get them to? To keep them alive for? A future with hope and potential, whether they ended up together or separate? It's hard to believe I ever thought such a thing could be possible. Harder still to believe that maybe it's approaching.

Two forsaken souls made it through with my help, and they have at least a chance at happiness. The rest of the district sits empty and silent, testament to the price of such freedom. But others will return and rebuild.

The meat's delicious, dark and fatty. I can't remember the last time I've had goose. Wild ones aren't very common near Twelve, mostly they're just seen migrating. But I could definitely get used to having it more often. Maybe I ought to keep some geese. How hard could it be?

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" I ask knowingly. "Big fat feasts wobbling around on squat little legs."

I offer Buttercup a morsel of the drumstick before polishing it off myself, which of course he accepts but shows no gratitude for.

"Those two lovebirds are alright. They won't need me so much now. Might as well find something to do."

Muddy-green feline eyes look like they don't believe me for a second.

"Yeah, you're right, that's ridiculous," I concede. "There's no way there won't be little mockingjay hatchlings of their own over there eventually. S'pose they'll be wanting a babysitter or something."

He returns to licking his fur, the matter settled

"But I won't do diapers! Not a single one!" I declare, pointing at Buttercup.

The flea-bitten beast gives me a look both skeptical and supremely indifferent, as only a cat can make.

I cracked open some of the good stuff to celebrate, but I won't be having much. There's already a warm feeling in my stomach. If I didn't know better I might say it's happiness.

"To our happy couple, eh?" I ask, sloshing the bottle in the feline's general direction in a makeshift toast. I take a swig and belch.

Tearing chunks of bread off the loaf, I contemplate today's developments as I pop them in my mouth. They're right like this. This is of worth, and I helped make it so. There's peace to be found in that. For once, since my own games, I know I'll be able to sleep the night without assistance. Undoubtedly the nightmares will be back tomorrow, but for one night, one half-revolution of this godforsaken planet, I've been granted a reprieve. I got two out. They not only survive, but _live_. I let my eyes drift closed, not bothering to re-situate myself on the couch, and let out a deep breath. I relax the tense muscles in my neck, and sleep overtakes me.

_fin_

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